Clayton's graduation
CANCELLING graduation ceremonies is a bigger blow to Dunedin than other cities, mainly because it is New Zealand’s only genuine ‘‘university city’’. If other cities lost their university they would just get on with building motorways or providing bed and breakfast to politicians.
Dunedin is different and that as a student I came to Otago rather than Canterbury, where most of my fellow Timaruvians were headed, is one of the best decisions I ever made. Eventually, I graduated, and on the big day lurched across the town hall stage to tired applause. (We paraded in alphabetical order and when my turn came even my own family were clapping in a style for which the word ‘‘perfunctory’’ was invented).
Even so, applauding that procession of graduates is a Dunedin ritual. It was not always so. When Alex Williamson, of Whanganui, was awarded Otago University’s first degree in 1874 it was probably posted to him as he had returned home to take up school teaching. The ODT was disappointed that such an honour did not go to a local man (‘‘he comes from as far north as Wanganui’’) while Williamson’s home town newspaper was pleased to note, ‘‘it is satisfactory to find that at least some of our young men are spending a portion of their leisure hours in other ways than playing billiards’’.
Times change, of course, and in the 1960s billiards was an integral part of my undergraduate life, matched only by compulsory attendance at informal tutorials at The Cook.
Just over a week ago it was graduation time again, but this would be a Clayton’s affair, the graduation you have when you’re not having a graduation. No piper leading the George St parade, no town hall packed with students, parents, and very clever people in very funny hats. No speaker to share words of wisdom with graduates who will perhaps remember not one of them. A pity, as some graduation addresses are very good. None of this ‘‘the race is not always to the swift’’ and ‘‘education is a putting in not a taking out’’ rubbish which dominated the endofyear speeches in my school days.
On my visit to Dunedin for last week’s graduation, the city was certainly quieter. I caught a bus for town and had heard about the flash new bus centre.
‘‘The Hub, thanks,’’ I said, proffering a $5 note. The driver grinned. ‘
‘‘It’s free.’’
‘‘Free?’’ I gasped.
‘‘Yes, it’s free! Take a seat!’’ yelled one of the more impatient passengers.
A free bus ride. Made me wish I was going to Harington Point.
The crunch came on
Saturday. How would graduation fare with no town hall do? In fact, the gathering on the banks of the Water of Leith at the clock tower made my day.
The sun was shining and the scruffy undergraduates of the past were now ravishingly beautiful and dressed to the nines. There may have been male graduates, too, but I didn’t notice them. Some parents looked shabby in comparison but they had probably spent their clothing allowance on their offspring’s education. There was more time to absorb the sights and ponder a while. The hood colours, for instance. For commerce it’s tangerine (gold, really) and for law it’s blue. It all seemed very appropriate. Gold being a symbol of riches and blue being the National Party colour. Thus, the young lady I met with a double degree in commerce and law looked not only a bit like a Highlander in drag but also hinted at her future monetary worth and political affiliation.
I bumped into a few old timers and we agreed the old place had changed. The usual comments were trotted out: ‘‘Sixty of us in a shoebox with the lecturer squeezed in at one end’’ and ‘‘Whatever happened to the Bowler?’’
The graduates had their degree certificates with them and I noticed that a paper was included which gave the academic record of the student. I was shown one with a string of As and B+s in the final couple of years, and in an attempt at praise, I gasped, ‘‘My word, you’ve worked hard these last two years.’’
She took the paper back with just a touch of miff and replied, ‘‘I worked hard every year.’’
I remarked to her mother who was nearby, ‘‘Well, university has certainly given her confidence and selfesteem.’’
‘‘University?’’ replied the woman before sweeping off, probably to meet a better class of person.
‘‘She was just the same when she graduated from kindergarten.’’
Noone fell into the Leith, no mortar boards were thrown into inaccessible places and pleased parents were congratulating themselves on having apparently got something right during the past 20odd years.
Apart from the tough times being endured by the hospitality industry, perhaps the Clayton’s graduation wasn’t too bad, after all.